Back in Baltimore
by Pseudo-Morals
Summary: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter. [Homicide: Life on the Street crossover]
1. Chapter One

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: PG-13

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

**BACK IN ****BALTIMORE**** – CHAPTER ONE**

Clarice Starling stands on the side of Paul Krendler's desk that is closest to the door, and eyes the man in the swiveling chair warily. It is not uncommon for her to find herself in situations with which she is uncomfortable; after all, this _is _the Federal Bureau of Investigation. However, this could perhaps be the only place in Quantico that truly makes her uneasy. She pictures, for an amused, fleeting moment, a strip of yellow police tape crisscrossing the entrance, marked with the words 'Warning: Definitely Hazardous to Your Mental Health.'

"I've been _what_?" Her voice is incredulous, her expression even more so.

"Called to Baltimore on assignment," he replies smoothly, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the desk. Starling's eyes cut to the soles, and she recognizes them as the kind that will easily scuff. _Serves him right, the damn bastard_.

"And who ordered this, Mr. Krendler?" Starling has a sneaking suspicion that it was he himself who wants her out of the area, so that he can take all the credit for all she has accomplished occupationally thus far.

"With all due respect, _Ms._ Starling—"

_With all due respect, Mr. Krendler, you've got your head so far up your ass you'll be spittin' hairballs any minute now_.

  
"—I don't think it's your place to be questioning the instructions I've been told to pass along to you."

"You don't, do you?" She mutters it, under her breath, between clenched teeth, and he has to lean forward slightly and reposition his legs to even catch a bit of what she'd said.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, _sir_."

"Okay then." He stands up and sidles his way around the desk until he stands in front of her chair, offering a hand to her in an exaggerated display of what he believes to be chivalry.

She accepts the extended limb, but when she is on her own two feet, Starling makes a show of wiping her palm on the side of her skirt. She notes Krender's glare with satisfaction, and leaves his office without a single word of goodbye.

When the door slams behind her, she doesn't even flinch.

-x-

On the morning of her scheduled departure to Baltimore, she spends half an hour with Jack Crawford, at his home. Although the man has retired from his position at the Bureau, he has friends within the system who keep a close eye on the woman he has watched grow from a trainee to a full-fledged special agent with a spectacular balance of attitude, quick wit, and common sense. He is, therefore, in the loop as to this particular assignment, and what it entails for his eager former student.

"Several reliable sources have it, that Dr. Hannibal Lecter has emerged from hiding and is back to his old tricks, Starling," Crawford explains, sliding a mug of lukewarm coffee across the kitchen counter.

She takes a sip, and tries not to grimace, feeling, suddenly, sorry for the man. With his wife dead, he has been reduced to an old veteran of the federal government, who wears flannel pants and a poorly-fitting turtleneck at eleven o' clock, and drinks stale coffee with women he cannot bear to fully let go of.

"But why me, sir? Why Baltimore?"

"We sent a number of agents to visit Dr. Lecter during his incarceration. You were the first, the _only_ one he has ever been responsive to."

Starling scoots up so that she is sitting on the counter, cradling the coffee mug in her lap. Her hands are pale, but appear remarkably peach-colored against the whiteness of the porcelain. She is silent, knowing that he will continue in his own due time.

"The Baltimore Homicide Department has come across several…people…that appear to have encountered the doctor."

Crawford addresses the matter vaguely, and Starling does not press him into further detail. She knows very well that the people are more like remains, and knowing it is enough. She does not need to hear it spoken aloud.

"Oh." It is an inadequate answer on her part, but he seems not to notice. "Paul Krendler mentioned Lecter, but he never specified—"

"Paul Krendler is a lying, manipulative son of a bitch, Starling, and you know that as well as I."

She is somewhat taken aback by Crawford's profane honesty, but does not show it.

He continues. "Have you arranged for a hotel?"

"Yes, sir. It's not far from the Department's office. Sergeant Howard recommended it."

"You spoke with him?"

"Her," she corrects gently. "Sergeant Kay Howard."

"Right," Crawford agrees, without alluding to his mistake. He is a rather proud man, and Starling wonders if she should have let the gender confusion slide.

"Good luck, Starling. God knows you'll need it."

"Thank you, sir." It is only on the expression of gratitude, that her West Virginia accent makes itself known in full force, and then disappears quickly as she adds on his 'title'.

When she lets herself out of Crawford's house, her coffee mug is left, mostly untouched, on top of the microwave. She is driving, and she turns the radio up to nearly maximum volume, to drown out the thoughts clamoring for her attention, about the last time she was in Baltimore.


	2. Chapter Two

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 2

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: PG-13

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

**BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER TWO**

The flight of steps leading up to the front entrance of the building has a mocking appearance, as if predicting her failure. She has never been to this part of Baltimore, and never intended to pay a visit.

"Starling?"

Kay Howard is a petite woman, with brilliantly auburn hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, and a dusting of light, barely visible freckles. She approaches Clarice unhurriedly, hands jammed in the pocket of her suit-coat, head tilted at a friendly angle.

It has often been said of the sergeant, that she is not particularly amiable with other women. The reality, however, is that she has not yet found someone whom she considers a decent enough companion, worthy of opening up to. To Howard's quick, trained eyes, Clarice has that strong stance of one who has escaped defeat on more than one occasion. It brings a smile to the redhead's face.

Starling turns, and confusion registers on her face. She has yet to meet anyone from the unit she will be working with on this particular assignment. "Yes..?"

"Sergeant Kay Howard, Baltimore Homicide." She drags one hand out of the pocket and offers it to Clarice, who clasps it firmly. A strong handshake, indicative of strong character. "Recognized you from the photos the FBI sent over."

"Pleasure," Starling murmurs, releasing the hand and allowing her companion to turn and jog up the steps towards the glass-paneled front doors. She is beckoned forward, and follows obediently. Under normal circumstances, she is hardly the submissive type and would insist on taking the lead, but this is unfamiliar ground, and likely to shift.

Howard briefs her quickly on their walk up to the unit, the usual things. Four deceased have been found so far, though the detectives believe that the deaths will continue.

"Men or women?" Starling rounds the corner and pulls open the door, holding it for Kay.

"Three men and a woman."

"Never any signs of sexual assault, of course."

"Right. How'd you know?"

It is not a rhetorical question. The younger federal agent looks up from the linoleum floor to answer, but the sergeant has moved ahead, and appears to be busy greeting a crowd of other detectives, clustered around a coffee machine. A frown tugs insistently at Starling's mouth, and she gives into it, briskly walking over.

"Sergeant, with all due respect…" She cringes inwardly at her wording choice, the same as Krendler had used. "…when you ask me a question like that, it's goddamn wrong to walk away from my answer. This is an investigation, not a high school dance. We're here to work, not to socialize, and the last thing citizens need are slacking law enforcement officers when there's a killer on the loose."

There is a stunned, hollow silence from the group. Kay Howard turns from the table and the coffee maker, to face her accuser. An unreadable expression flickers, quickly, through her eyes. Perhaps a combination of annoyance and respect. She holds her glare for a moment, and then allows an easy smile to filter across her lips. "Well, alright, Starling, what d'ya have, huh?"

"Dr. Lecter, if it's indeed him that you're looking for, will never sexually assault his victims."

"And why not?"

"Guess he considers himself above that. In all the years he's been observed, he's never pulled anything like that. I have a feeling he'd consider that unforgivably rude."

"So he's never impolite, is that it?" The half-mocking inquiry comes from a blond man, wearing a cocky expression and leaning against the nearest desk.

"Well, no sir, he doesn't like the rude much, unless they're appetizers." Starling notes, with extreme satisfaction, the nauseated expression he wears once the comment settles in. She returns her attention to Howard, who has been the most knowledgeable person she's encountered thus far. "What makes you think this is Lecter's doing?"

"Well…" The sentence is interrupted momentarily for Howard to heave a sigh, and then she moves off again, careful to grab Clarice by the wrist to avoid further reprimand. "…the most recent victim was discovered in the back alley that connects to the Italian grocery across the street, just there." She jerks a thumb in the vague direction of the window. 

"So?" Starling arches a questioning brow. Surely, Sergeant Howard cannot be suggesting that Dr. Lecter has become a suspect simply because of the body's close proximity to an Italian business? Sure, it was believed that he'd spent some time hiding out in Italy, but that was hardly a lead…

"So, where the kidneys should have been, the killer placed a single red rose. Kellerman—that's the guy at the desk, the one that questioned you—went down to talk to the boys on flower duty for the past week, they do a rotation, see, and one of 'em said that we could look at the videotapes."

"They keep a camera."

"Right. They've had some troubles with shoplifting in the past, neighborhood kids, nothing big…" Howard catches a glimpse of Clarice's exasperated expression, and is amused, displaying a sly grin. "…bet you're wishing I'd just get on with it, huh."

Starling aborts an utterly childish giggle, surprised at her own show of amusement, and nods.

"Right," the sergeant repeats. "We got hold of the tapes, and set it up, and most of it's just regular clientele, but there was this one man who bore a resemblance to the pictures of Lecter taken while he was incarcerated."

"But mightn't he have changed his face, or something? Collagen implanting, maybe. I find it hard to believe he'd just be roaming around without any sort of disguise…"

"Good thought, there." The voice is unfamiliar. Starling turns in surprise, but Howard seems unaffected, not even looking over her shoulder.

"Agent Starling, Detective Munch. Munch, this is Starling." The slender redhead makes the introductions, and Clarice offers the man a half-smile. He is tall and rather thin, the latter only heightened by the contrast between his dark trenchcoat and light-colored collared shirt. His countenance is deeply lined, and he has a nose of character, with dark, alert eyes which currently display amusement.

"Hey," Munch remarks, eyes cutting quickly to Kay. "Saw the way she snapped at you earlier, Sarge. Smart girl—" this, with an approving nod to Starling. "—she'd be an asset to Homicide."

"Sure would, if she didn't have her fancy federal badge, John," remarks Kellerman from the desk, looking up from his stack of case files. Munch shoots him a withering glare, and the blond falls silent.

"Excuse him," murmurs Howard, "he's probably still sulking from your appetizer retort."

"Yeah," Munch chimes in. "Thinks he's God's own gift to women, you know, and he thought you'd be more receptive…"

Starling is beyond entertained. "Got one just like him back at Quantico."

Howard grins, and even John Munch is caught with a smile. There is a moment of silence, though far from awkward, and then the conversation turns back to the investigation at hand. It is a natural transition.

"We think he would have found collagen implants difficult for the region around and including the ears," explains Munch, "and that's the part that really resembles the photos we've got."

"Alright," Starling agrees. "Do I get to see this similarity, or am I going to be left completely in the dark here?"

"Come on," invites Howard, and she leads Starling, with Munch in tow, away from the main cluster of desks to the relatively small room labeled as the chief's office.

"Gee's not here," explains Munch, "and we're not staying, but Sarge's just gotta get the pictures."

"Gee?" This from Starling.

"Yeah. Al Giardello, really, but way back when, when he was a rookie, he saw his first crime scene and all he could think of to say, was 'Gee'," Howard explains, from her position bent over the desk, rifling through reams of paper. "Aha." She returns to the doorway, triumphant, with a manila folder clutched between her fingers. "Desk, ho."

Tim Bayliss's desk is their destination, or so Starling gathers from the nameplate on the edge. It is relatively tidy, with ample spreading space, and the redhead splays the pictures out onto the wooden surface.

"Now," she explains, "these're the ones we took from his last stay in prison—" pointing to the pair of photographs on the left side, "—and these're the ones we capped from the videos."

Starling leans over them, studying the similarities and differences with a scrutiny not solely driven by a desire to see the doctor behind bars. Something unfamiliar rises from her chest up into her throat, something hot and wet and frightening because she cannot place it as anything she has felt before. She bites back a cough.

"Shit."

"What?" Munch peers over to her, with an expression of concern. "You alright?" When Clarice doesn't answer, he hastens to speak again. "That's him, isn't it?"

Clarice Starling cannot speak. She cannot breathe, or swallow, or blink. All she can do is nod slowly, her mouth cotton-dry.


	3. Chapter Three

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 3

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: PG-13

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

**BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER THREE**

John Munch and Clarice Starling are on their way to do some real investigative work, the kind that she has always envisioned herself conducting, but never has had the chance to. Sure, she managed to question people in her pursuit of Jame Gumb, but she is quite sure that there is a difference between Belvedere witnesses and Baltimore ones.

Kay Howard had volunteered to accompany Starling, but she had chosen Munch for company, liking the man's slightly sarcastic affect and his clear, to-the-point way of looking at situations. Now, she takes two strides to his one, as they cross the busy intersection, heading for the Italian grocery.

She half-wishes that she has a badge, important-looking to inspire respect in the most reluctant interviewees, noting the flower boy's expression of compliance after Munch flashes the star.

"Your name," Starling says firmly, not a statement, but definitely not an inquiry, either.

"Tony," the boy replies, and Munch stifles a snort of amusement. 

"You didn't have to ask," he murmurs, leaning in close, so that only Starling can hear. "Half the kids in this damn neighborhood are named Tony."

She smiles. Continues. "Tony, do you recognize this man?" She pulls the photograph of Lecter from her coat pocket, and offers it to the boy.

The Italian youth, no older than seventeen, takes the picture by it's edges, making absolutely certain not to smudge anything. Starling is struck with the sudden realization that he has, most likely, had to go through this procedure in the past. It would account for his care in handling the photograph, perhaps he has been reprimanded by other detectives for ruining 'evidence'.

"Yeah, sure. He came in here, what, like, a couple weeks ago. Maybe less. Bought roses, red ones."

John and Clarice exchange knowing looks.

"Was he carrying anything? Books, papers…?" This from Munch, who reaches to take the photograph back from Tony. The glossy paper is slid into his own coat, rather than Starling's.

"How the hell should I know?" The teenager's eyes flash with annoyance. "I don't remember, man. Listen, can I go, now? I've got work—"

"Maybe a quick trip down to the station would jog your memory," Starling says, feeling strangely as though she is quoting a cheesy cop show on television. However, John's hand against her shoulder-blade is reassuring. She's done right.

"Alright. Look, he had a bag with him."

"A bag?"

"Yeah, looked like the ones they give out at the liquor store on the corner."

"Tony?"

"What."

"You're not twenty-one."

Immediately, the boy is on the defensive. "Hey, I just go in there with my old man, I'm clean. And besides, you shouldn't even be…you're here about Dr. Fell."

"Who?" Starling's brow leaps up like an eager puppy.

"Dr. Fell, that's what he said his name was."

"And you didn't think to tell us that, Tony?" Munch looks less than pleased.

"Well, you didn't ask, did you?" He turns away, and when neither the detective nor the federal agent move to stop him, he leaves the pair at the curb and returns inside.

"Dr. Fell," Starling murmurs, eyes lifting to meet John Munch's. "Funny he should go by that."

"How so?"

"There's a kids' rhyme," Starling explains. "_I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, The reason why I cannot tell; But this I know, and know full well, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell_."

"That son of a…" begins Munch, and trails off when he remembers his present company.

"Bitch," Starling supplies helpfully.

John laughs. "Let's go talk to whoever's working at the liquor store, hm?"

"Right."

They start for the corner. A smile rests lazily on Starling's lips. Her eyes are alert, and she keeps up with the small talk, but the rhyme continues to run, stuck on a continuous loop, in the back of her mind.


	4. Chapter Four

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 4

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: PG-13

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

**BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER FOUR**

The man who is currently employed by Baltimore Wines & Spirits, a well-respected chain, studies the offered photograph critically, tilting his head a bit.

"Yeah, yeah…I know him. Came in a little over a week ago. Knew his wines. Bought a single bottle of Batard-Montrachet, but that wasn't the case he ordered."

"What was?" Munch leans against the counter with an air of practiced nonchalance. 

"Chianti."

Starling grimaces, but faintly, the change in expression barely noticeable. "How appropriate." When Munch looks to her inquiringly, she shakes her head. It is not worth an explanation. She continues, "If he had the case shipped, he must have given you an address. Would you still have it, sir?"

"Sure, we keep a record of our shipments," the man responds, turning to his desk. It is uncluttered; in essence, a wooden board supported by file cabinets, with a computer to one side, gathering dust. He settles himself on the swiveling chair and pulls open the top cabinet drawer.

"Goes by Dr. Fell, we're told," suggests Munch, and their assistance nods, running a finger across the tops of assorted manila folders, before coming up with the records for that month. He spreads the folder out over the desk, flipping through a few papers, and eventually lifting a triumphant gaze to John and Clarice.

"Here you are," he says, with the cheerful expression of one who knows he has scored brownie points with the authorities. Munch jots down the address on his small pad, and flashes a smile across the desk: decidedly fake, but the integrity of the expression, or lack thereof, goes unnoticed.

-x-

Starling's heart is thudding in her ears, loud enough that she is sure the others can hear it. She leans against the wall of the hallway, shoulder-blades pressed up against the painted brick surface. Her gun is held at the ready, and she takes a deep breath to calm her jangled nerves.

She knows full well that this is her _job_, that this is of the utmost importance, but she cannot deny that a large part of her hopes beyond all hope that Dr. Lecter is not in the apartment. That they have the wrong address. Anything; some slip of the system that ensures his freedom and the continued chase. Without this particular game, Clarice Starling will be lost, and hates herself for it.

"Baltimore police! FREEZE!"

She hears Munch yelling, but his voice sounds as though it is emerging from a mine shaft, dwindling in volume and vehemence as it travels to reach her ears. She swallows hard, ignoring the piss-taste of old beer and fresh bile in the back of her throat.

The men ahead of her have moved, the doorway is clear. Raising her weapon, Starling edges forward, keeping to the wall, until she has turned. She finds herself in the apartment. It is rather spacious, despite the affect of the hallway.

C'mon, Starling. Check the corner, that's right, good…keep moving, let's go…

There is no one at home. If Dr. Lecter had once been here, he is gone: there are no volumes on the rows of bookshelves in the living room, a dusty layer of neglect coats the windowsill.

"Jesus," she murmurs, to nobody in particular, and pushes her way past the assortment of detectives, moving through the main area, down a short corridor, to the bedroom.

She had not predicted that the sight would hit her this hard.

The blankets are rumpled, one top sheet dangling, halfway, to the floor. He has obviously left in a hurry, and it shocks Starling to see things in such disarray. She crosses to the dresser, stares at her face's reflection, thin and pale, in the glass, There are dark circles under her eyes: borderline maroon, and it has not even been two days of investigation. Her right hand places to the dresser-top; she feels paper under her fingers instead of smooth, polished wood.

She pockets the scrap without looking down, and freezes when she sees, with the mirror's aid, Kellerman standing in the doorway, relaxing only upon the realization that he had not seen her hand move.

"What's this, huh? Little girl gone to see the bedroom of her long lost love?"

In a flash, a second's passing, Clarice Starling understands that Mike Kellerman is far more like Paul Krendler than she had initially thought.

His taunting smile is maddening. She wants to hit him, to bite and kick and scream, but she does none of those things. When she speaks, her voice is eerily calm. "Get out of here, sir. Just, get out."

With an expression of disappointment at lack of a better reaction, the smug blond turns to be unhelpful elsewhere.

Starling warily draws the paper out in the open, unfolds it. The single sentence is scripted with flawless, unmistakable penmanship. As her eyes trip from word to word, she can almost hear him, murmuring them in her ear, voice low and clear.

_You are closer than you know, Clarice_.

Her chin tilts upward, gaze seeks out the ceiling. It is a trick from  her youth: look anywhere and everywhere but at what makes your eyes fill with tears. She will not return her stare to the floor. Starling is consumed with dread, the possibility that if she does, indeed, look down again, she will see her heart. Hot, raw and traitorous, glaring accusingly up at her, trembling in a pool of blood that she can taste now on her bitten-raw lips.


	5. Chapter Five

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 5

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: PG-13

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER FIVE

Against her own better judgment, Clarice Starling does not tell a soul about the scrap of paper she found atop Dr. Lecter's dresser. Instead, she keeps it tucked away in her coat pocket, drawing it out spontaneously: in the bathroom of the precinct, in the backseat of the taxicab that takes her to her hotel room. In that very room, sitting on the edge of her bed, fighting the same hot tears that plagued her in the apartment they'd entered the previous afternoon.

She cannot stop looking at it. 

_You are closer than you know, Clarice. _

The words seem alternately mocking and soothing, depending on her mood.

Starling leaves the squad room of Baltimore homicide late in the evening, after a shared dinner of cheap Chinese food. They had sat around John Munch's desk, twirling sesame noodles around the broad girth of plastic sporks, talking about anything and everything save for the man they pursue.

_We've exhausted our leads_, Clarice thinks as she hurries down the flight of stone steps and turn the corner. _We've got nothing to go on…but we might, if I turned in the note._

Even so, the paper remains in her pocket, folded twice, the ink slightly smudged from the oil on her fingertips. She reaches in for it now, just to reassure herself that it has not fallen from her coat. For some bizarre, unexplainable reason, she feels safer with it on her person at all times.

She sees an unoccupied cab idling outside the deli, and considers a return to her hotel, but decides against it after a moment or two. Starling feels a sudden urge to return to Lecter's abandoned apartment.

Reasoning that it is safe, because they had searched it the day before, she turns on her heel abruptly and begins the journey. The walk is not an excessively long one, and she welcomes the exercise, slight as it is. Since her arrival in Baltimore, she has been forced to forfeit her morning jogs.

The building itself, when she reaches the base of its stoop, looks cold and forbidding. A light shines from a fourth floor window, and a cat's comfortable mew is heard from further up. She sees the animal, a dark shadow perched on the fire escape.

Starling climbs the short flight to the front door, then another series of steps to the second floor. It is silent, almost heavily so, the quiet pressing down hard on her ringing ears. In a flash, she realizes how foolish she was to come here without returning to the hotel to retrieve her gun.

Feeling childish beyond words, she makes the shape of the weapon with the fingers of her left hand, extending it into the path of the dim, flickering overhead light. She is faintly relieved when her shadow appears to be armed.

The apartment door is slightly ajar; the detectives had apparently neglected to close it fully upon their departure. She creeps across the narrow corridor, and shoulders her way inside. It is dark, and as soundless as the outside hallway had been. Starling's shoulders slump a bit in visible relaxation.

The heels of her boots click lightly against the hardwood floors as she makes her path through the room serving as a foyer, heading instinctively towards the bedroom that had affected her so unexpectedly during the police's forced entry. Although there is no reason for her to be apprehensive, her heart continues to thud dully, but loudly, in her ears.

It is almost enough to block out the music.

As the resounding piano notes filter across her subconscious, she is struck suddenly with the recollection of reading the report from a few years previous. Glenn Gould's exquisite performance of  Johann Sebastian Bach's Goldberg Variations, was playing cheerfully when the shots had been fired. When a cop was strewn atop an elevator cab, bleeding steadily. When Dr. Hannibal Lecter had lay a few feet from his barred cell, wearing another man's face.

Starling's small frame only begins to pivot, to run, when a rough, damp cloth is clasped over her nose and mouth. She chokes, her head spinning, senses quickly absorbing the scent of ether, and her limbs weaken suddenly. She falls.


	6. Chapter Six NC17

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 6

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: NC-17

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

**BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER SIX**

When Starling manages to open her eyes, she has the vague floating sensation of one who has just emerged from a dream, or perhaps is still experiencing it. She shifts, intending to rub at her eyes, but cannot seem to move her hands.

Her gaze lifts, back arching to peer upward at her wrists: secured with scarves to the bedposts. She tugs gingerly, and the fabric gives a little, but not very much. There is a faint, almost stale smell of smoke, and she wrinkles her nose at the scent.

"Hello, Clarice."

She tenses visibly, flattening her body against the mattress, looking down again. She is naked, and wonders why that was not the first thing she noticed. A wave of utter humiliation courses through her, bringing a vivid crimson hue to her flatteringly pronounced cheekbones.

He is sitting there, as she somehow knew he would be, a cigarette filter smoldering in an ashtray set beside his chair. She has always adored the way he speaks her name: that velvet-rich tone with the slight slur on the last syllable, commanding her attention immediately as if he owns her name. And therefore, owns her, as well.

"Doctor," she manages as a return greeting, pleased to note that even in this sort of situation, she retains her manners.

A faint smile curls over his thin lips, and he stands slowly, uncoiling from his position of repose. "Did you sleep well?" His tone is mocking, and obviously so. The period of slumber was hardly a choice.

"Yes, sir." She catches a faint wolfish glimmer in those startlingly maroon eyes, and she is overcome with a nauseating sense of dread. "You're not going to…eat me, are you?"

The older man's brow lifts in amusement. He shakes his head. "No, my little Starling. Not unless you ask."

The innuendo is not subtle and Clarice blushes again. For a moment, she had forgotten who it was that she dealt with. Vowing to choose her words more carefully now, she nods a bit, biting at her lip nervously.

For all her anxiety, she is less frightened than, by all rights, she should be. Any sane person would tremble with fear if alone in an apartment with such a violent, grotesque serial murderer, but she feels an underlying sense of calm. The thought that she might be deranged is seriously considered for a moment or two.

He has not yet touched her. She is as sure of it as she is of her own name, and the thought is immensely comforting. Dr. Lecter has sat across from her, observing her in an exposed, oblivious state and he refrained from taking advantage of the situation.

"Why are you here, Doctor?"

"How interesting," he replies, clasping his hands behind his back, "I feel as though I ought to be asking you the very same. This is, after all, my home."

"You know what I meant," she replies, feeling the faintest twinge of exasperation. "Why here? Europe would be so much safer, sir, they wouldn't know nearly as much about you; we don't correspond regularly with the federal branches there.."

He waits for her to finish with the expression of a man who has known his reply from her first word and patiently awaits his chance to continue. 

"I wished to be found, Clarice."

"You wanted to be caught?" Her eyes shine disbelievingly.

"No. To be _found_, Clarice, there is quite a difference."

"Why?"

In the moment of silence between the end of her inquiry and the beginning of his response, Clarice Starling wonders if she really wants an answer. He clears his throat.

"_The first three hours of night were almost spent_

_The time that every star shines down  on us_

_When Love appeared to me so suddenly_

_That I still shudder at the memory.___

_Joyous Love seemed to me, the while he held_

_My heart within his hands, and in his arms_

_My lady lay asleep wrapped in a veil._

_He woke her then and trembling and obedient_

_She ate that burning heart out of his hand;_

_Weeping I saw him then depart from me._"

She is silent as he finishes, voice and words seeming to linger, clinging desperately to the wood paneling of the room, the sheets, her earlobes.

"Sir?"

"Dante."

"Yes, sir, but…"

"But, what, Clarice?"

"What are you asking, Dr. Lecter?"

"Bring your hands down, Clarice." He avoids the question skillfully, and dutifully, Starling tugs with force, the scarves unwrapping from the bedposts. Her arms come to rest at her sides, and she watches as he moves forward, quick strides effortlessly carrying him to the edge of the bed. She repeats her query.

"What are you asking? What are you saying?"

He leans down, gaze locking with hers. While the lamp burns faithfully beside the ashtray on the end-table, she thinks with a frightening thrill that his eyes hold the only source of light in the room. Flecks of gold and silver, mingling with the aubergine iris, color so vivid it seems to swallow the pupil completely.

Dr. Lecter samples her fear the way he might sip at a glass of exquisite merlot. Finding it satisfactory, he speaks again, so close to her that his breath tickles across her lips.

"Devour my heart completely, Clarice, for you have already dined on half."

His mouth is on hers now, sending a flickering wave of terror and delight spiraling down the length of Starling's spine. Almost hating herself for it, she returns the kiss, one hand cradling the curve of his cheek, the other placed against the back of his neck.

His hands are on her, skimming over her flesh in practiced movements, as if learning every curve, every angle. Every nuance. Her heart is thudding frantically in her ears, and she has pushed with her elbows away from the mattress, forcing her frame flush against his.

And then, the contact has ceased. She hears the gentle clink of a belt, the airy sound of fabric falling from skin. When he touches her again, she realizes that he still wears his shirt and tie, which is almost amusing. He is frantic. Worst of all, so is she.

She arches again, and he meets her in it, sending a gasp of combined pleasure and pain tumbling from her lips. Clarice Starling is not a virgin, but she might as well be; it has been so long since that first and only time, fumbling in the backseat of a Cadillac in her date's unlit driveway.

She moves with him instinctively, opening her eyes just slightly to look up at him, almost wishing she had not. His own eyes are closed, beads of perspiration dotting his brow, mouth open a bit. He looks surprisingly vulnerable, and Clarice realizes just what a private moment she has caught him in.

It has been years since Dr. Lecter has possessed a woman in such a manner. He finds himself at the edge of self-restraint in mere minutes. Only then do his eyes open, lock with Starling's. She is fascinated by his stare, the color, the intensity, wanting in a sudden moment to crawl into his gaze. She cannot.

Her nails dig harshly into the fabric covering his shoulders as he rocks forward a final time. The sheet sticks damply to her back and it is over. She has not made a sound, though it was every bit as earth-shattering as depicted in the cheap romance novels she can sometimes confess to reading.

It is only when the salty drop reaches her lower lip and curious tongue that she realizes she is crying.


	7. Chapter Seven

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 7

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: PG-13

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

**BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER SEVEN**

He slides from her with a shuddery sigh, and Clarice lifts her hand to gently wipe the tears away with the side of her thumb. A fine layer of perspiration covers her body, and she is breathing rather heavily. Even so, she remains silent, as she had been through their intimacy.

Dr. Lecter stands from the bed, bends to retrieve his pants. He, too, is quiet, his actions businesslike. Though she isn't crying now, Starling feels hot tears stinging her eyelids. She blinks them away quickly, before he notices.

"You cannot stay, Clarice."

Her eyes snap up to meet his, ignoring the hurt in his stare, focusing only on her own flash of pain. She holds his gaze for nearly a full, silent minute, before looking away again. Starling does not speak, nor does she nod, giving no indication that she has heard him. She does not bother to ask why; she already knows.  Using her elbows, she pushes herself up from the mattress, swinging her legs around to stand.  

"…where's my stuff?"

He gestures with a lift of his chin to the chair by the dresser. Her clothes are folded neatly, and she collects them, dressing quickly. In a dully thudding, dizzying moment, Clarice feels filthy, sick. The dampness on her inner thighs is drying and no longer sticky. She bites her lip hard, and closes her eyes for a moment until the nausea passes.

She leaves without another word to him, though there is much she longs to say. The rest of the apartment is dark and silent: the recording of the Variations has run its course and he did not bother resetting it. She fumbles along the wall, blind, in the direction of the door, escaping into the dimly illuminated hallway, down the scuffed and dirty stairs.

Her initial breath of 'fresh' Baltimore air, no matter how polluted it must actually be, is beyond refreshing. She takes deep, almost desperate pants, filling her lungs until she is sure they'll expand beyond their limit.

She reaches the curb, and her stomach betrays her, lurching upward. Starling doubles over, wrapping an arm around her abdomen, the other hand holding her hair back as she vomits into the gutter. She hasn't eaten since the shared meal of Chinese takeout, which doesn't taste much worse the second time around.

She lets go of her hair, it swings forward to frame her face again. Her fingers splay atop the fire hydrant at her side, bracing herself for the dry heaves that rattle her petite frame, gasping for oxygen again when body finally stills.

The grocery across the street, with its florescent lighting, seems to glow like a heavenly refuge, beckoning her closer. She crosses, not even having to dodge cars, and pays for an overpriced bottled water, mainly in quarters. She catches a glimpse of herself, blurry and reflected in the empty front window, and is startled to see what resemblance she bears to a cop show's rape victim.

-x-

Kay Howard is at home by herself, though decidedly unbothered by the lack of company. She hasn't had a date in nearly a year; her evenings are spent primarily working on stubborn case files to keep up with her perfect clearance rate. The squad room's Board proudly displays evidence of her drive to succeed: she has closed every homicide thrown in her direction.

Tonight, however, she is watching television. Nothing particularly outstanding, so she channel-surfs idly, half-reclining on her battered sofa, a pillow propped under her lower back. There is a knock on the door, and she hastens to answer it, slightly confused. She hasn't had a visitor for a longer time than she has lacked romance.

It is Clarice Starling. The agent looks disheveled, her usually flawless complexion now a horrid combination of flushed and pale.

"Starling?" The redhead is no longer puzzled, but definitely concerned. The other woman's eyes brim with unshed tears.

"It wasn't the way it is in the novels," Starling murmurs, and her face crumples.

Kay opens her arms, allowing Clarice to stumble forward. Her hands place against the younger woman's upper back, palms skimming the fabric-covered surface in soothing, calming circles. She knows what the paperbacks make romance to be. Girls who read them hungrily believe that men will touch them gently, touch their face, their breasts, with soft, relaxing strokes. That men will hold them, panting and spent, as the dawn's vivid hues streak across the sky, erasing the stars with the mere passage of time.

"Jesus, honey," the sergeant murmurs, embracing her friend, "Don't you know it never is?"


	8. Chapter Eight

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 8

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: PG-13

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

**BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER EIGHT**

It is only when Clarice Starling awakens to find sunlight streaming in golden shafts through the dusty shutters, that she realizes she has spent the night at Sergeant Howard's apartment.

It is a nice place, albeit small, with tasteful décor and an apparent knowledge of how to make the most of little space. The apartment seems to lack a guest room, so Starling had not been moved from the sofa, where she had curled up almost immediately upon her arrival.

There had been only minimal conversation between the two women before bed. Kay had not asked her friend who it was, that had disappointed her so. Starling, reflecting on it now, realizes that she is grateful the redhead had refrained, for reasons other than the obvious. Thinking back, she is unsure as to whether or not she would have been able to lie.

Neither of them eat breakfast, but Kay has a cup of fresh coffee awaiting Starling's arrival at the kitchen table. They sit together in companionable silence, sipping occasionally from their mugs. Starling has never examined her fingernails so closely before.

The shrill, high-pitched tone of a cell phone is heard, and both women fumble to check their hip pockets, but Starling abandons the search when the sergeant flips hers open.

"Howard."

Clarice does not intend to listen. Eavesdropping is a nasty habit, little as it may be, and even though she has been forced to use the tactic over her years in the service of the Bureau, she has never enjoyed it. However, the one-sided conversation she is faced with, sounds remarkably as though it has to do with _her_, and so she quickly overlooks her qualms, and tunes in.

"Yeah, she's here," Kay murmurs, seeming to deliberately avoid Starling's gaze. "No. Around ten or so, Mike, what's the big deal, huh?" The redhead's eyes widen slightly. "The apartment? Are you sure? Jesus, that's out of line… Not part of your job description, either, hon. Listen, I'll take it now, but don't pull that again, Mike. That'd get you pulled up in front of Gee faster than you can _say_ Hannibal Lecter."

Starling's face is pale and drawn when Kay ends the call and looks over to her again. She shakes her head slightly. "What's the word, Sarge?"

"Kay," the redhead corrects gently. She is proud of her title, certainly, but doesn't see fit to enforce it with people she considers to be her friends. Howard clears her throat, heaves a sigh that seems unbelievably large for such a small woman, and continues. "That was Mike. Kellerman," she adds, for Starling's benefit. "He claims to have seen you, both entering and leaving, the searched apartment of one Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He took photographs, apparently."

"Really, now?" Clarice forces her voice to remain even, unworried, though her lips feel dully numb, as though she's just had a shot of Novocain.

"Is there any truth to that, Clarice?"

"Well," she manages, "I was there. I left my…my scarf, and I went back to get it, Kay. I figured it was safe enough, we'd already searched the place the day before."

"I see." Howard nods slightly. "That sounds reasonable. You didn't see anyone, did you? Anything unusual, as though someone had been there between the raid and your arrival?"

"No." Starling lies, and is almost surprised with just how easily she can do it.

"Good. Don't take it personally, Kellerman's always been quick to point the finger at anyone and everyone save for himself."

Clarice chuckles quietly, the response she believes is expected, and is relieved to see Kay doing the same. Tipping her head back, the redhead drains the rest of the coffee as if emptying a shotglass, the empty mug making a sharp, rapping noise when it hits the table again. Starling does not finish hers, and they stand together.

-x-

When the pair push their way through the glass doors and into the squad room, Starling is surprised to see an unsettling number of detectives huddled around a whiteboard, where a diagram much like a football play, is inked in red marker.

"What the hell's going on here?" This from the sergeant, who is apparently as shocked as her friend at the sight.

Kellerman smirks smugly over to them from his perch on a desk, and Starling is filled with the sudden urge to punch him in the teeth. She takes only half a second to wonder from where the violent thought had come.

"A meeting was called," he reports, "to investigate the photographs I took of the apartment building."

"And me, too, right?" Starling's temper flares and her hands ball into fists. She shoves them in the pocket of her coat, nearly putting a hole through her bottom lip in a fit of rage. "I was in some of those photographs, apparently, and don't you think it's _right_, it's _just_, to wait for me to show up before running your damn mouth?"

She cringes under Kay's hand as it clasps her shoulder, in an effort to calm her down. The touch is slightly comforting, but still she refuses to relax. In fact, she tenses further when the blond ignores her outburst and turns casually back to the circle.

"Here! Mike, I got it here…"

The two women turn abruptly to see Munch, striding briskly toward the mass of detectives, weaving around desks with expert knowledge of the room's layout. He clasps a computer printout between his thumb and forefinger, and looks triumphant.

"Good," nods Kellerman. Kay raises a brow and steps forward. Clarice is, as always, amazed by how much power the redhead seems to wield: even Tim Bayliss stops his side-conversation and turns to focus on Sergeant Howard.

"Hey, hey… listen here, huh? Gee's off seeing about the transfer of a new rookie to the unit, so I've got the reins here…and yet, no one saw fit to inform me about the advancement in the Lecter search, did they? That's a bit funny, isn't it, Mike?"

The young blond has the decency to look slightly ashamed.

"I've got the forwarding address of the alleged 'Dr. Fell'," reports Munch, turning a look of respect upon the petite sergeant. "It's entirely on the other side of the city from the apartment we already searched; I figure it's worth a shot."

"Agreed." Kay nods faintly, and turns to Clarice for confirmation.

Starling forces herself to give a stammered go-ahead. It is as though every vein in her body has been poisoned with ice; her heart slowly begins a sickening descent to the pit of her stomach. She clasps a hand over her abdomen discreetly, calling no attention to herself, although she thinks she very well may vomit again.

She does not. Instead, she clings with the other hand to a filing cabinet until the nausea moves on. All she can think of, is obtaining the address and going down to warn the doctor before they arrive. 


	9. Chapter Nine

_Title_:  Back in Baltimore – Chapter 9

_Author_: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)

_Genre_: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

_Category_: Drama

_Rating_: PG-13

_Feedback_: stardustsavant@hotmail.com

_Archive?:_ Sure.

_Summary_: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.

_Author's Notes:_ Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04. 

**BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER NINE**

It is only through Kay Howard that Starling would attempt to procure the address, and only through Kay Howard that she actually succeeds. Assuming that the agent only wanted to be present for the raid, the petite redhead had handed over the scrap of paper willingly.

Clarice Starling is now running through the chilled, heavy Baltimore rain. She has had the taxicab drop her off a few blocks from the townhouse, so that if the driver is questioned later, it is not definite that she ever had the intention to visit Dr. Lecter. Without warning, the weather decreases still further in pleasantness, and Starling drags the back of her hand across her eyes to clear the water that trickles down from her forehead.

She does not knock on the door. Instead, she pounds, throwing more body weight into her fist, hammering on the polished wood, than any sane person would normally do. She detects movement in her peripheral vision and swings her head abruptly to catch the motion: a curtain, falling back into place across the window closest to the entrance. A few moments later, and Starling, not having given up hope, is faced by the good doctor for the second time in a week.

She is entirely unprepared for it. In the backseat of the cab, it all seemed like a better idea, she honestly thought that she would be able to look him in the eyes and feel nothing. In the half-second between his signature smirk and his invitation to _Do come in, Clarice_, feathery wings of pale gray flutter at the outer edges of her vision. She takes a quick, hissed breath, and the color fades.

Starling crosses over the threshold and is unsurprised by how tidily the doctor has kept this residence. She turns to face him again, and does not have to tell him why she has come. In her wide, terrified eyes and pale countenance, he can read her reasoning.

He nods, without a word, gaze lifting to her face. "When?"

"This afternoon."

"How?"

She shrugs helplessly, one hand lifting as she passes her palm over her forehead, as if trying to erase the lines of tension. She fails. When Starling focuses again on him, she is far more scared than before. Instead of immediately moving to collect what he wishes to take, the doctor has adopted a resigned pose.

"You're not…" she ventures, and he sighs quietly. Starling shakes her head. She is sweating, although the room is on the colder side. "You can't be thinking of letting them find you, Dr. Lecter."

"And why not, Clarice?" His voice is low, but calm and clear, as though he has been giving this serious thought on more than one occasion. "It would be the ultimate gift to you, wouldn't it? Advancement. Just imagine what they would say if they knew it had been you to apprehend me."

"No." She pushes her hair back from her face, and glares at him, sure that this is just another one of his games, to toy with her mind. She hates to think that it's working. "You can't be caught now. This isn't how it should be."

"How _should_ it be, Clarice? Do tell me."

"I don't know, sir, but not like this. Not because of some lapse in judgment, some emotional slip. It doesn't suit you."

"You're willing to sacrifice your career for this?"

She does not realize how close she is to crying until she feels the stinging against her eyelids, the dampness of her lashes. "Without the chase, Dr. Lecter, where would I be?"

He stares at her for a moment, wondering whether or not she is actually serious. "You're certain."

"Yes."

His eyes wander now, sweeping over the interior of the room. He sighs once more and turns, taking a step in the direction of the door.

"Sir?"

He does not whirl to face her. "Yes, Clarice?"

"Aren't you taking anything?"

"Furniture can be replaced. Freedom cannot."

She looks down at her shoes, not because she finds them particularly intriguing, but because she knows that if she watches him leave, sees the direction he chooses, she will have a way of going after him.

Starling hears footsteps, and the front door's opening and closing. She is crying outright, not bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks, knowing that they will just be replaced over and over again.

Clarice Starling has never considered herself a highly emotional person in that respect. Anger comes easily to her, but grief, not as much. It is almost a relief for her, that her shoulders shake, breath taken in starved, ragged gulps.

She wipes the doorknobs with the sleeve of her coat when she leaves the brownstone and hurries down the street.

Had anyone thought to look closely at her during the afternoon raid, they would have seen odd relief in her eyes.


End file.
